Macedonia Travel Guides

I can’t help but think my journey started in Luton’s dingy boarding gate, where a crowd awaited Wizzair staff’s nod of approval, the hallowed sign we could trickle onto the aircraft and escape the noisy, sweaty staircase doubling as waiting lounge. A middle-aged Eastern European man shouts “we are not cattle!”, his fuse clearly shortened by having been submitted once too many to the all too familiar subpar services of low cost airlines. Partly disgruntled for having my morning quiet disturbed (I barely made it out of bed), partly amused at his abrasive belligerence, I wonder why I assume him to be Macedonian, having only met one in my life that I can remember. And he isn’t particularly short tempered.

Four hours later, we land in Skopje. Alexander the Great is a brand new airport, with kiosk spaces still waiting to be filled and ATMless holes in the wall. Its slogan, “Live, smile, fly!”, makes absolutely no sense to me, but I might still be in early-morning grump mode, having just woken up from a semi-submersing nap. To its merit, the trek from the gate to the bus stop is short, clear, and smooth - I’m outside, bus ticket in hand, in 10 minutes. Perhaps I got lucky and took all the right turns, but a quick look around confirms there’s little opportunity to get lost.



After staring at the bus timetable for a while, I regret not pre-emptively studying up on some Cyrillic. Relying on the transparency of languages is rather useless when you can’t read the alphabet. Thankfully, a closer look reveals a pattern in the seemingly illogical time sequences: the schedule changes according to the day of the week, in an effort, I suppose, to match incoming flights. I sit against the glass walls and wait. It takes about five minutes before I realize how crisp the air is, pleasantly fresh and soothing. There’s not a building of notable proportions in sight; the horizon is lined by chain of mountains. I love airports lost in the countryside. There’s absolutely no distraction, no noise, no head clutter. My mood further improves when approached by a British tourist for the time - I must not look as raw and jaded as I feel.

When the dingy shuttle bus, not quite the giant blue transporter from the website pictures, makes its appearance, it is same tourist who notes the bus is filled with exhaust fumes, which prompts me –singled out by the driver to take place first– to commandeer the seat at the open window. I am as happy as a dog, muzzle high up in the air and ears flapping in the wind, until a man seated behind me leans over and shuts the window with a curt ‘sorry’.



Macedonia is a country in development, Skopje a city under construction. We drive through a countryside littered with half-finished houses and makeshift huts. The city is no different, with its concrete soviet-era apartment blocks, grey and grim, sometimes dilapidated. The sight challenges my conviction I prefer ugly cities over the pretty ones, but I know I’ll be gratified when I start noticing those small eccentricities that lend character.

The people here are short spoken, solemn, unsmiling, but friendly. In the search for my hotel, I address a dour looking lady who glowered at the tiny map on the booking sheet. What could have been mistaken with annoyance and reserve was, in fact, careful consideration of how to steer me in the right direction in the few words in English that she knew. Another man abandons his renovation works to join me on my quest, asking locals for directions until I assure him that if it’s in the neighborhood, I’ll be able to find it. Soon I discover that it is, indeed, not that far.

There is no lobby, only a bustling pizzeria. A waiter – Bobby, my new best friend – disappears with my passport but comes back with a beer. It worries me some when he says away for a while, and it is only when I have finished my collation that another waiter asks whether I want to be shown to my room. I am guided outside, up the stairs, and into a room that you enter straight from the street. Instead of a double, it has two twins and – most importantly – virtually no window. I make my way to the restaurant again, find Bobby, and inquire about my passport. A few words are exchanged with his manager, who assures me the waiter handed it to me before – and I’m certain he hasn’t, but when I check, it’s right there, in my folder along plane tickets and hotel booking. I dig and dig, but I have absolutely no memory of the handover. I must be exhausted.



Although apologetic, I sense I really do have friend in Bobby, and I ask for a room with a window. Another chat with the manager results in another set of keys. Bobby escorts me himself. I’m pleased to be presented with a smaller but quainter room, with a window spanning wall-to-wall and wooden beams stretching across the ceiling. The view is –as would be proven at nightfall– spectacular, a panorama of the archaeology museum across the river. As pre-warned in the hotel reviews, this room must be particularly noisy, being situated right above the river sidewalk/youth hangout, but I’m delighted. It’s not too far a cry from the promo pictures.

Hours later, after a meal, an Internet fix, a nap and a shower, I loiter outside the Irish pub helpfully named ‘St. Patrick’s’, waiting for my local friend and his wife. It must have been more than two years since we last saw each other, although neither of us remembers exactly how long. I am conscious, all of a sudden, that these kind of reunions, both with close friends and friendly acquaintances, have been creeping into my diary of late. They unnerve me, because they are a testimony of the past, which has not always been peachy. But my momentary apprehension is quickly quenched under the familiarity of our happy quips.